


Fever Dream

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Dark, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:37:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think I'm going to dream tonight. Big bad ones - the kind you like."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Dream

The feel of fangs breaking her skin overwhelms Fred’s sensible sensibilities. Sharp, and so hot! She imagined it would be a dull, cold ache that pulled her into sweet oblivion.

They make her dizzy, make her relax into his grasp.

Angelus is hard against her ass and he is drinking her blood, holding her up with one hand as the other reaches into her jeans, into her panties and up against her clit, rubbing roughly as Fred gasps and almost tries to struggle away.

She smells iron in the air; but somehow, it feels good to let him touch her like this, make the sound of her heart pumping blood into Angelus’ mouth less painful.

“Don’t,” she hears herself say, but it is a futile word and a faraway voice, rising and falling like her chest as Angelus pleasures (pains) her feverishly, pulling back to kiss and nip at her shoulder, her collarbone, the back of her neck.

Does she want him to stop? If she does, why is she shuddering and whimpering with pleasure and not fear?

“Don’t,” he echoes back to her, pushing her down to the floor. “Don’t you want me?”

“It feels weird,” Fred says as he pins her down and tears open her blouse so he can sink his teeth into her breast and drink again. “Like I’m floating.”

“You like it.” She’s bared to him, her body arching up as he penetrates deeper with his fangs and fingers.

Her heartbeat slows and she can feel his cock pressing against her thigh. And she wants it.

“Don’t stop–”

Fred sits up alone in the dark with a gasp, the dream-memory of Angelus’ teeth in her nipple immanent and surreal. Ashamed, she imagines his teeth there as she rubs it with her thumb and moans.

* * *

“You’re nothing,” Cordelia says. The boots are shiny patent leather and go up to mid-thigh. “You’re not worthy to lick my boot.”

Her body glistens with moisture, naked except for the boots in the full moon’s light. Angelus’ collar is studded with shining steel spikes, and when she pulls on the leash, blood runs down his neck. He growls with increasing need.

“Harder, mistress,” he says, unworthy eyes trailing down her divine curves. “Show me how to please you.”

“Yes, Cordelia, show him,” says an unfriendly voice. The dead have come to visit Cordy’s nightmares, and this one has rage as terrible as an army with banners and a disarming powerlessness. “Show the big bad vampire how to be your bitch.”

“Jealous, Lilah?” Cordelia asks, striding up to her old enemy with a smirk.

“Why? I’ll always be the one you took first,” Lilah replies, fingering her neck and offering Cordelia the crimson-bright blood to taste. “For the baby.”

Cordelia inclines her neck and licks each finger, sucking roughly on them to hear the other woman gasp. She draws the ring finger knuckle-deep inside her mouth and Lilah moans when Cordelia stops.

“You’re mine,” Cordelia says, putting her hand on her stomach, where the baby turns and kicks.

“Maybe,” Lilah replies, chalk-white to Cordelia’s golden glow. “Then again, maybe not.”

Angelus is naked and lusting on the floor, waiting for Cordelia’s order. Cordelia’s eyes stray–and when she looks back, Lilah holds a knife studded with rubies. She plunges it into Cordelia’s stomach, and the blood bursts forth tumultuously.

“The river’s undammed,” Lilah says. “It’ll wash us clean.”

She drops the knife and drowns. Cordelia tries to scream, but the river has stolen her voice and enveloped her in the cold, wet quiet.

_oh god,_ she thinks, _it’s my baby._

* * *

God is talking to Steven Holtz, telling him the way to salvation, but Steven cannot understand the language God speaks, for he is unworthy.

Father had warned him this would happen. There’s nothing Steven can do.

“My Lord, my God, please let me hear you!” Connor (formerly Steven) pleads, on his knees before a just and merciful God who will cast him to Hell in the end. “I pray to you, oh Lord–”

“God?” a sharp voice asks. Connor turns and sees a blonde woman wearing whore’s garb. “That a son of mine would pray to God–”

She spits. Her walk is slow and predatory as she reaches Connor and pulls him to his feet.

“For straight is the way and narrow the gate, but not for you, Steven,” Connor’s mother tells him. “For you it is fire and hell and the sweet stench of carnal corruption. Just like you like it.”

Her lips burn against his cheek like poison. It makes him erect and he cannot pull away from her.

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he says with trembling lips, but he does not pull away when she undoes his jeans and puts her soft red mouth around his member. “Get thee–”

“I thought that’s what you wanted, son,” Angelus taunts, pulling Connor’s arms behind his back. “To fuck your mother. Look, I got the real thing this time. The expert.”

Tears run down Connor’s cheeks. “No! I don’t–Cordy’s not my mother!” he protests. “Stop it.”

“She can’t,” Angelus hisses, his spittle striking Connor’s cheek. “The only thing that can is–”

“Faith,” Connor prays. “Faith will save us. Oh, Lord, give me–”

Connor groans. In his bed in the Hyperion, Connor (still Steven) turns over and half-wakes.

“Faith,” he whispers, returning to sleep.

* * *

“You know what you have to do,” Faith says, handing him a knife. Charles Gunn nods.

Wesley is lying on a table, naked and wrapped in plastic. His eyes are open, his mouth is open, but there’s no sound.

“Are you sure about this?” Gunn asks when he gets closer. “Can’t we just lock the door? He won’t get out.”

Faith shakes her head, and spiders fall to the floor and skitter away to the overture from Giselle. Gunn groans. Stupid-ass subconscious. He got it! A brother could dig the ballet and continue to be a bad motherfucker like Samuel L. Jackson. Lesson learned.

Come to think of it, Samuel L. Jackson was so badass that even a purple light-saber didn’t diminish the badass.

“Sorry, Wes,” Gunn says, raising the knife. “This is gonna hurt you a lot more than it’ll hurt me.”

He plunges the knife into Wesley’s heart, and it blooms. Literally blooms. There are roses busting out of Wesley’s chest and Gunn doesn’t know what the hell to think. Roses? Red roses?

“Good job,” Faith says. “Now the eyes. Come on, Gunn. We’ve got to be done before dawn.”

Eyes? Gunn shivers. “You didn’t say nothing about the eyes. You want his eyes, you do it your damn self,” he says.

Faith turns a triple pirouette, leaps through the air and ends up on Wesley’s face. Gunn’s pretty sure from the way she’s grinding her crotch it’s a sex-type thing.

“Oh, look, you’re sublimating your repressed Wes-lust again!” Fred laughs, suddenly standing next to Gunn. “Charles, I love you, but you have to face it.”

“Face what?”

“You want to fuck Wes,” Fred says matter-of-factly. “You always did.”

Gunn looks over at Faith and Wes. Sure enough, Gunn sees himself fucking Wesley on the table.

Well, HELL.

* * *

A thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters can produce the monkey Hamlet.

In Klingon.

Faith’s dancing with the Klingons again, her body fluid and rigid and Faith loves to dance the way that

(ducks love Norway and Wes loves death)

The blue lights are turning the red room purple and Buffy’s there, Buffy’s there and she’s bare to her underwear

(Buffy kisses Faith goodbye, and Faith’s never loved as true or as hard as she loves B and Wes is watching them kiss their love)

The monkeys want to have a story meeting. They’re smoking their cellphones.

Angel’s doing the electric slide.

Faith’s dancing with Buffy (Klingons. Wesley. Wes has a gun and he’s rabid) and the blood is flowing like wine.

Blood wine!

“Give it to me,” Wes says, tied to the chair, and Faith has glass covered in his tears. “I love you.”

(Angel loves her to DEATH)

“I can’t save me,” Faith cries and they’re singing a Charlie Brown Christmas but it’s only Easter Monday.

The blue lights are swirling, the disco ball is swaying, and Angel is doing the electric slide with Cordelia.

“Put your arms out,” Wesley instructs, wearing an aviator’s cap. “How do you expect to fly?”

Faith spreads her wings and a million feathers fall to the floor. She spins and spins, because Buffy won’t dance with her.

They’re all dancing the last macarena under the disco ball.

Wesley cleans away the blood and holds her tight. “I love you, Faith.”

stop saying that! (Wes loves death)

and  
  
the infinite monkeys

do the  
  
electric slide

and  
  
Angel’s (in a story meeting)

with their leader,

under  
  
the bright purple lights  
  
in  
  
the dark red room.

“It’s always dangerous out here,” Buffy says. “You better know how to fly.”

Faith jumps.

It’s time to see.

* * *

The digital alarm clock reads 3:15 AM in phosphorescent letters. It turns the darkness around it into a strange glow, no good in itself as light, but it’s ameliorating the oppressive darkness the best it can.

It doesn’t click. For this, Wesley is thankful. The clock in Wesley’s apartment ticks but it never tocks. He hadn’t paid it any mind for six months.

It’s no good to think of six months. He’s shed his tears. There is work to do, Angel to salvage, a world to save. No one ever cried over spilt milk. But the clock must go. It ticks but never tocks.

The pillow is too hot. He turns it over. The material drags against his cheek. His own pillows are perfect, given to him as a gift. His old pillows were apparently neck and back problems waiting to happen.

Faith will have to be exonerated, her legal records buried. The Council should be able to help; it will do no good to return her to prison. She’s clearly been using prison as a hiding place from her problems and as much as Faith needed refuge to salve her troubled soul, she can’t hide forever.

3:19 AM.

The thread count of these sheets must be appallingly low. Probably only 180. Wesley’s own sheets are unbleached Egyptian cotton. 340 count. Another gift, though one he ended up paying for.

They reek of memory and desire.

Tomorrow, he will need to look into sleeping pills. He’s aware of the risks, but this insomnia will drive him mad before it’s through, and they don’t have time for another bout of sleeplessness-induced madness from Wesley.

The quiet echoing in the halls rattles him. He misses the sound of her breathing beside his ear.

3:24 AM.

Wesley’s open eyes ache.

3:26 AM.

Still silence.


End file.
